


Dictum Meum Pactum

by MirrorMaiden



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Canon Era, Eventual Romance, Inspired by Fanfiction, Intrigue, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-21 03:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16568951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMaiden/pseuds/MirrorMaiden
Summary: Marcus had thought, once Esca decided to stay, that all that was left for him to battle was the mystery of what they were to each other - and then a detachment of legionaries is sent into their hills, alerted to signs that a druid might still be running loose about them.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Annum Novum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095426) by [exeterlinden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exeterlinden/pseuds/exeterlinden). 



> This work is inspired by the fantastic "Annum Novum" by exeterlinden, and written with express permission by the author. I think the fic offered a wild and beautiful world in which to play, and I'm thrilled to have gotten the chance to do it.
> 
>  _Dictum meum pactum_ : my word [is] my bond.

_“But I am not leaving, Marcus. You are my shieldbrother, and I want to stay."_

These were the words Marcus longed to hear. So long he had wished them that he thought for a second that to hear them now was a product of his own mind, but there was Esca, his blue eyes clear as and soft as the spring sky above them, holding the dagger that should have marked his departure.

There was another bond in the offering, Marcus knew. Once before, this man, this proud, pugnacious Briton had held a dagger out to him and sworn – then, Esca had thrown the weapon at his feet and pledged to serve him, furious and resigned. Now…he was not sure, but felt in the very depths of his being that it was a thing of joy.

“You want to stay here?”

Esca nodded.

Marcus reached out, wrapping a hand around the shell-inlaid hilt. His hand spanned further than the grip, and for a moment his fingers lay against Esca’s, still carefully holding onto the blade. “Then stay.”

Esca’s smile was like a sliver of sun.


	2. Too little, too late

The early autumn day had warmed to one of mild winds and silver-grey clouds, which was as good a day as Britain could offer. Marcus found that an old marching song drifted into his mind as he and the larger one of their two ponies made their way down from the moor to the village. It came to his memory as he’d heard it as a legionary, before the Fourth Cohort of Gauls and long before Isca Dumnoniorum: his own voice lost to his ears amidst the cheery din, song punctuated by the perfect sound of many men taking their steps at the same time.

 _“Oh when I joined the Eagles_  
_(As it might be yesterday)_  
_I kissed a girl at Clusium_  
_Before I marched away”_

He let himself smile at the recollection, discovering he felt at ease. The sting of paying tribute, as Marcus had predicted, would not be as sharp that year as it had been the past one, when their harvest had been so meagre and hard won that to part with even a tenth of it had made Marcus understand British discontent in a way he had never dreamed he might. The man who’d looked at the conquered peoples of Rome with distant, impersonal sympathy had been gone the very winter after the return of the Eagle, but to have the rich, idle tax collector take what little of their grain had not rotted, grain that may well have been decisive in whether he and Esca survived the winter, had put a black, simmering anger in his heart. He no longer held on to it, but Marcus would never forget it.

And there was no rage today. The fields promised to yield generously this time, so generously in fact that Marcus had finally found it in his heart to forgive Gnaeus the merchant for misrepresenting the land to them – it was hardly Elysium, but with the weather in their favor the soil had turned out as rich as its former owner promised. No grain rotted in their stalks, no rain turned the fields to mud, so when time came to pay their tribute, it would not be a painful matter.

The squat roundhouses, the hill and the sprawling villa appeared before him, and for the first time since the first, the sight did not put a sense of unease in the center of Marcus’ being. It was the weather, the good fortune, and of course the coin purse with four hundred denarii concealed in his cloak.

On the morning of the day before, Marcus had been so cheerful that Esca had not been able to hold his tongue. “If I did not know you so well, I would swear you are glad to hand our hard-earned coins to Rome.”

Marcus had smiled ruefully at that. “I  _am_  glad. If the skies would but hold their peace, I will be content.” Marcus privately hoped they would, since this autumn promised to be infinitely more merciful than their first. He’d had lain a hand over the small coin purse then, full of the product of their trade from the summer festival and their hard toil, of sales and small sacrifices – the entire four hundred denarii he'd need to buy the young slave Tullius, nearly two seasons later than he’d wished for them, but finally his.

Esca had given him a playful glare then. “You are eager for the hypocaust, or perhaps the fine wines and olives you will be offered.”

Marcus responded with an amicable shove. He knew full well that Esca above anyone else understood the day’s significance: if all went well, today he would not simply procure more help for the farm. He'd be delivering the boy from his mistress’ abuses and the threat of the mines in Iscalis, and that brought Esca more joy than he would let on. He had toiled the lead mines himself, after all.

But there would be no Iscalis for Esca, not ever again, and neither would there be for Tullius.

The thought of home, the memory of Esca’s rare smiles and a day as clear as Britain could offer made Marcus’ heart swell, and the very end of the song he’d paused earlier ran through his thoughts unbidden.

 _But the girl I kissed at Clusium_  
_Kissed and left at Clusium,_  
_The girl I kissed at Clusium_  
_I remember best of all._

 

* * *

 

Marcus presented himself at the external wall of the villa a little before noon. “I would have a word with the masters of the house, if they will have me,” he informed the slave who finally came to the main gate.

The masters would indeed have him. Marcus was soon ushered inside and escorted to the richly decorated tablinum, where only the tax collector’s wife Herminia awaited. This was the case often, so much that at times Marcus felt as if she, and not her oft absent husband, represented the empire’s strong right arm in these lands.

Herminia smiled at him from her seat upon the raised dais, a smile full of teeth that put Marcus in mind of small, wicked carnivores. “Marcus Aquila.”

“Domina,” Marcus responded deferentially. “I expect you have been well.”

Herminia nodded. “I am pleased with your well wishes. How are you liking your second year in our lands?”

“The soil has been generous.” Marcus toyed for a moment with the notion of adding  _and so have my neighbors_ , but though he’d hardly ever done commerce in his life it was clear enough that Herminia might not like it, and that would not bode well for his plans.

 “A man of such few words, you are. Still, I am glad for your presence. The days are long without someone to speak to, in my husband’s absence.”

The woman’s gaze turned brighter, and Marcus was reminded of how quickly he’d learned to mistrust her. More than once since the day he’d come to have his name recorded in the tax collector’s annals, Marcus had believed he’d seen something like thirst in the way Herminia regarded him. What he thought the domina might want of him, he could not put into words, but caution instructed him to tread lightly, to speak little. As long as he remained but a wounded former solider of indeterminate rank, toiling over a small farm in tribal country, Marcus would hopefully appear too insignificant for whatever designs she might harbor.

“I thank you, domina, but there is much to do to the house and the land before winter sets in.” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “I would also ask you where Tullius is.”

Herminia’s smooth brow creased for a moment. “Ah! The serving boy. I’ve told you before how dissatisfied I was with his service. It would appear these Britons are often ill-suited for delicate tasks; he broke one dish too many, and so I have arranged a decent price for him from a trader of some repute.”

Between one breath and the next, all the warm anticipation that had carried him from the farm and down the moor vanished. Cold, oppressive shock gripped Marcus’ stomach. “Pardon?”

“Yes, a man intent on doing business with my husband passed through at the end of spring, and I thought to seize the chance.”

Marcus exhaled roughly, piecing the facts together. No slave trader willing to make real profit would think of wandering so far away from the larger markets of places like Calleva, and especially not to a distant village populated by impoverished Britons, on the wan hope that its only affluent Romans would care to do business. Herminia had to have gone and sought out a buyer for Tullius, through her husband or via a letter.

Somehow, from the haze of rage that rose in him suddenly, Marcus found the presence of mind to speak. “Is the transaction complete?”

“He has not been here to retrieve the purchase, but I would call it completed, yes.”

He was right then. Had it truly been a trader passing by chance, Tullius would have been taken away by his new master immediately. A trader gone so far out of his way once already would hardly waste resources on a return voyage.

Matters of buying and selling were not simply made and unmade according to Roman law, he knew; there was nothing left to protest. But another force which spoke for Marcus then, protective rage and the dry sound of Herminia’s hand as she’d slapped the boy for mishandling a too heavy amphora many long months ago. “I wish to offer you four hundred denarii, domina, for the slave boy Tullius,” he said, pressing a hand to the coin purse, “I have them with me right now, and as I’ve been wanting a slave of my own for a time.”

Herminia looked at him with friendly curiosity, jarring against the backdrop of Marcus’ agitation. “We had wondered if you might be too poor or perhaps a…follower of certain thinkers, to refrain from acquiring help for your farm. Had you been plain with me before, Marcus Aquila, I might have given it thought, but I have agreed for the boy to be sold for  _five_  hundred denarii.” She raised an eyebrow, as if asking him  _do you have a better offer?_

Marcus, of course, could not have produced even a single denarius beyond the four hundred he carried. The sum had been hard fought as it was, and there was nothing with him at that moment that he could have sold or offered as payment. “Domina, I would beg you to wait, please,” Marcus said, wetting his lips in a vain attempt to find some eloquence. “I have been intending to ask you if you would sell Tullius to me for a long time: I have little help at the farm, and thought he is small, he is the right age. If you would but give me until next spring –“

“I truly am sorry, Marcus Aquila,” Herminia interrupted, in a tone that held no regret at all, “but I am afraid the transaction is complete, and the fate of this boy is by now beyond my control. I can however ask the trader, when he comes, and perhaps you may do business with him. I would be happy to introduce you, or even barter on your behalf.”

“No need, domina…no need. I thank you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Marcus’ feet felt heavy as he saw himself out of the tablinum and across the bustling atrium, no destination in his mind but to put some distance between himself and the domina. The purse of denarii felt even heavier now, hanging beneath the wool of his robe uselessly.

He cursed himself a fool, for Herminia was right, and never had he indicated the slightest inclination to buy anything of hers, not slaves, not grain. Marcus had simply made a thousand assumptions: that she would be in no hurry to sell the boy, that no traders would be available immediately even if she did, that perhaps Iscalis was an ill-natured but empty threat, made to scare a boy she mistakenly believed unruly. With chagrin, Marcus realized he had even assumed the price, a fair guess based on the boy’s tender age, his apparent lack of skills and the way his mistress seemed to dislike him.

The morning’s air of fair winds seemed distant now. Marcus paused to gather his bearings, only then realizing he’d just passed the curtain of the villa fructuaria, the part of the house where provisions were stored. The thought gave him pause. After a moment, he strode forward, parting the curtain and letting himself inside.

His appearance made an instant ripple of surprise spread over the room. Some of the slaves started and others stared, but all seemed too baffled by his presence and his appearance to address him. Marcus wondered what they made of him, for he was tall and bore the features and short hair of the Romans, but he was dressed in a tunic and braccae, the fibula holding his robe together of unmistakably British craft.

He finally found Tullius in a corner. He seemed smaller than Marcus remembered him, dwarfed by great sacks and full-bellied amphora, crouching low to the ground with a puddle of barley at his feet. It seemed one of the grain sacks had been closed with too fragile a thread, which had finally given from the weight of having more sacks piled atop it.

The boy reacted to the sensation of eyes on him before Marcus spoke a word. He tensed, shoulder rising to his ears, then flinched as if preparing for a slap.

It gave Marcus heartache to see it. He coughed, then made a conscious effort to relax his stance.  _I must appear to him a huge, hefty beast of a Roman_ , he thought with chagrin. He rested his left shoulder against the wall and hunched over, shielding Tullius from view as best he could.

When no blow came, Tullius righted himself and looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of Marcus, afraid still, but he did not look away.

“You remember me?”

Tullius said nothing. Marcus was suddenly afraid that his Latin might be as poor as Marcus’ British, that all the words he might know were the domina’s orders. “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, like he would to a startled young foal, “but I come too late. I would have bought you on the first day, if I’d had the means then.”

Tullius’ eyes softened. He understood, it seemed, whether it be his words or just Marcus’ gentle tone.

A throat cleared behind them. Marcus turned to see a pale woman in clothes of worn fabric, a half-woven basket in her arms. She might have been younger than Herminia, but toil had made lines fan out from the corners of her eyes. The edge of her nose was red, and the eyes that avoided Marcus’ gaze with grave subservience were red as well.

“Go, make no more trouble,” she said in British, voice tired despite the sharp words. Marcus was not yet very proficient in the language, and often worried he never would, but the phrase was simple enough for the British he’d been slowly absorbing from Esca since late spring. Behind him, Tullius shuffled to his feet and took off without a backward glance; the woman heaved a great sight. She let her eyes flick up to look at Marcus only once before ducking her head. “Forgive me, domine. My son…he is…unruly.” She was not crying then, but her throat was still rough with what must have been a lengthy, tearful morning.

“You are Tullius’ mother?”

“Yes, domine.”

Perhaps she had been just told of her son’s fate. Perhaps she had overheard him talking to Herminia, just now, in the tablinum. Or perhaps she, like Marcus’ mother, could keep a stoic façade for weeks and even months, until a broken vase or an especially cold breeze disturbed grief from its hiding place, and then it would come forth in a torrent. Perhaps she cried a little each day, emptying her vast grief by cupfuls as the date of their separation approached.

 “I regret my delay,” Marcus said earnestly, unwilling to stop himself. “I would have bought Tullius this year past, and spared you all the pain.”

The boy’s mother did look at him then, confusion in her furrowed brow. It seemed to take a moment for her to make sense of the words. “And what trouble of yours could it be the fate of us mere slaves, domine?”

The words were said without bite, tired and resigned, but Marcus chafed at them anyway. “Concern, nothing more.”

“There are more beautiful, more tractable boys,” she answered simply.

The words made no sense for a moment. Then they finally made it through Marcus’ thick skull, and an all-consuming rage filled him for a second before quickly burning itself out, devoid of fuel. Tullius had from the first appeared barely weaned to Marcus, more babe than boy, but he would be the right age to some other, on the cusp of manhood as he was. And, of course, he was a slave, and slaves did not have the right to defend themselves against what free citizens might do to their bodies.

“You misunderstand. I would not take a  _child_  to bed.” 

The woman seemed even more confused at his quiet vehemence now. “I fear you speak in riddles, domine.”

He thought of a masked gladiator, holding the sword above the chest of a thin Briton with defiant, blazing eyes. “I believe no man should be treated as a piece of furniture might.”

“You are a philosopher?”

It almost made Marcus laugh at the irony, that not an hour earlier Herminia had also implied that he might be a follower of those philosophers who wrote of the many evils of the institution of slavery. If she could know that he had lived it… “No. I am a man who knows there is honor, pride and virtue in those whom Rome considers barbarians.”

The woman’s lips tightened, and the small lines framing them became more visible. Marcus could not tell whether the raw emotion meant she believed or disbelieved him; he would not fault her for the latter. “You are Roman,” she said at length, the hesitant tone only barely masking the accusation.  _You are a Roman, what do you know of pride and virtue_ , she meant to say.  _What do you know of us so-called barbarians_?

“I am Roman,” Marcus agreed, “and I was a soldier. I’ve seen courage and honor in the people I was sent to subjugate to the Eagle, pettiness and cowardice in those I was made to call brothers,” and finally, lowering his voice, “I count a man of the Brigantes as the single person I would trust with my life. There is more to all peoples than what Rome would tell me there is.”

The woman stared at him, every line of her body stilling in shock. When it seemed she would say nothing else, Marcus unthinkingly jerked his head in a bow and made to leave.

 “You live in the hills.”

“Yes. In the farm once of Gnaeus the merchant.”

The woman nodded. Her nod abruptly became a deep bow, punctuated with another, whispered  _domine_ , and then she quickly slipped through the curtain her son had disappeared behind earlier, the unfinished basket forgotten at Marcus’ feet.

 

* * *

 

 A hand hovered over his shoulder, and Marcus turned from their hearth to find Esca standing beside him. “You’ve been distracted these past days. I called to you from the door, and you did not stir.”

Marcus gave himself a firm mental shake. “I was…” To say that he was thinking at all would have been a lie. More accurately, he had become so lost in revisiting his emotions of the past days that he had thought nothing for a moment.

His failure to retrieve Tullius had put a bitter taste in his mouth, one so bad that Marcus wondered if he would ever find something sharp enough to clear it. Three days after he returned from paying tribute at the villa, Marcus would still find himself pausing to think of that day, from Herminia’s sharp smile to the tired eyes of Tullius’ mother and then to the boy’s protective cowering.

Esca gripped his shoulder more tightly, then levered himself to the ground beside him with its support. He was slowly becoming more tactile to Marcus, touching him without excuses or explanations to be had. “The boy caught the domina’s wrath, Marcus. You could not have foreseen the course it would take.”

“It took so long to have the four hundred denarii.”

“It did.”

“If I’d asked Uncle for a loan…”

“Ah, Marcus. It surprises me, that you would believe this woman was forthright with you,” Esca responded, “I wonder if she might not have added a hundred denarii to any sum you offered her, given that she lied about the trader.”

Marcus turned to look at him then. “Why refuse to do business with me? And why be so particular about the boy’s buyer? She would have been getting rid of him either way.”

Esca chuckled mirthlessly at that. “Because being your slave would hardly be fit punishment, if it even were a punishment at all. She sold the boy for spite, not profit.”

Marcus looked at him with furrowed brows.

“You think she hasn’t gotten the measure of you? Oh, Marcus…” Esca bent his head, mingled exasperation and affection in his voice. When he raised it, he fixed Marcus with a probing stare. “This woman is exceedingly kind to you, though clearly it is not in her nature to be, and yet you refuse to avail yourself of her hospitality. You refused her denarius at the festival last year when you threw the fight with me.”

“I doubt anyone but you noticed that,” Marcus could feel his face heating somewhat.

“She didn’t notice, perhaps. But have  _you_  noticed how much kinder our Dobunni neighbors became to you since then?”

Marcus looked away. He had noticed, and it had pleased him. “I would not have them pity me as a dishonorable fighter.”

“Not at all. You showed many of them where your allegiance lay that day,” a real smile appeared then, a momentary quirking of Esca’s lips, “and then you stared the tax collector and his retinue down after your defeat quite unsubtly. That, I fear, she must have noticed.”

“Then she should spurn me, and she doesn’t.”

 “I will grant you that she does not know you well, but only a simpleton would have failed to realize you do not share these Romans’ distaste for Britons. That, and that you are not a cruel man.”

They sat in silence for a moment after that. “It sits ill with me, to have a child separated from his mother and sent to toil in the mines,” Marcus confessed.

“It  _is_  upsetting.” And it seemed to be, he thought, watching all the lines in Esca’s face tighten. He could have been the angry slave he’d been, only recently fetched from the ludus. “Iscalis is a hard place for a boy so young.” He had not let go of Marcus’ shoulder: he tightened his fingers around it once more, the pressure close to bruising.

Marcus embraced the painful grip as both a reminder of Esca’s trust and a grounding, a sign that life would have to continue. He picked up his other hand to lay it over Esca’s. He did not remove it for a long time, after the bruising pressure had stopped.

 


	3. By the grace of Lugh

The harvest was plentiful that year. Esca repeated that to himself with a little more joy each time, as he and Marcus toiled from sun up to sundown, bringing in shoal after shoal of grain in such a quantity that Marcus had joked that they might need to dig a fourth grain pit to accommodate it all.

“I will not be too sorry to have a tenth of this go to the villa,” he finally said to Esca one morning, laying down the small sickle on the floor of their granary and straightening his back, which made a loud popping sound in response.

“Not too sorry?”

“The day that Priscus Considius Balbus comes and helps with the harvest himself, then I will not be sorry at all.”

Esca laughed, surprised and pleased. The tempestuous mood that Marcus had carried back from his last journey to the villa was cleared at last, and though he would not forgive himself for that failure, any more than he forgave himself for any past failure, he had slowly warmed back into the cheerful presence that bedded down at Esca's side each night.

After a momentary respite, Marcus caught up his sickle again and both left the granary. The land, not yet warmed by the rays of the weakening sun, smelled rich and green, clean and sharp as the mornings of his childhood. Saevu and Catus, the wolfhounds Marcus had received as a gift from his uncle when he had journeyed to Calleva for help that lean winter past, bounded into the roundhouse and back out again, going back and forth between chasing their masters and chasing each other.

The entire scene brought a curious mixture of joy and sorrow to Esca’s heart: he missed his mother and his brothers and his proud, merry father with bodily pain on days like this, full of the things he would have shared with them.

He glanced at Marcus, broad back and long, sure steps moving ahead of him, and some of the sorrow quieted.  _If I am to live these mornings in their absence_ ,  _I would not have anyone but this stubborn centurion with me_.

There had been a few kisses in the days and months since Esca decided to stay: in the quiet of their roundhouse after a day’s long toil, in the field after a good laugh and a few had begun with Marcus for a change. Things between them progressed not unlike their crops, a thing to be tended and watched in the hopes of harvesting it one day, knowing that to cut it from the stalk prematurely would be to kill it. Esca would have once been impatient about it, but as they meandered calmly down the path to where they might end up he had discovered he felt at peace with each small victory earned. One day, Marcus would wake in his pallet, not beside it.

Esca hurried forward a little then, not touching Marcus, but moving close to his side until there was but a breath between them as they returned to their work in the fields.

 

* * *

 

 

They had not been at the task for long when a sharp cry came from the hills, which provoked short answering barks from the dogs. Esca looked up to see Louarn and Meghan coming around the house, Louarn with a hand raised in greeting. Though the bracing winds of autumn had begun to blow, neither of them had brought the winter cloaks out yet, trueborn Britons to their core.  _But then, neither has Marcus_. His body was becoming more used to farm work in Britain; Esca smiled.

“Esca. Marcus.” Louarn reached a hand out and clasped both their arms once they came close.

“Louarn. Meghan,” Esca responded duly. Behind him, Marcus must have smiled, for Meghan ducked her head, and the faintest of blushes colored her cheeks, despite how her mouth remained in a sullen line.

Louarn smiled as well, but he looked at Esca, and then away, towards the far side of the field. He had come to speak of Lughnasadh then, the hour and place of the ceremony and sacrifice, far from where Marcus could hear.

To speak of it privately was a valid precaution, and one that Esca himself would have taken had their positions been reversed. Beyond any remaining mistrust towards Marcus himself was mistrust for what Marcus stood for: Rome, the legions, the Red Crests who marched in step and grouped themselves into vast structures for murder, like statutes brought to life by way of dark deeds. Esca himself had not been able to see the man through the image of the soldier that had blinded him for a long time.

It sat ill with Esca nevertheless. He did not move or make as if to excuse them from Marcus’ presence for a long time, so that Louarn began looking uncomfortable as the silence grew. _Brigantia, little have I ever asked..._

“Your crops are plentiful, this year,” Louarn said at length, casting about for a topic when the stand-off turned unbearable.

“A blessing to be sure, Louarn,” Marcus answered, brimming with true pleasure. “We have the animals as well, our goat is kidding…” he smiled so brightly, Esca’s heart gave a little spin. “Blessed by the gods.”

The phrase was said in innocence, but something in it struck Esca in the chest; it had the feel of a prayer answered. Before he thought to stop himself, he was reaching out to clasp Louarn’s shoulder, “I understand you have a message for me.”

Louarn’s eyes widened, and his lips tightened, almost imperceptively, from beneath his thick beard.  _Not here_ , his eyes told Esca,  _not here_.

Esca’s face didn’t change. He saw Louarn’s eyes widen and felt movement beside him as Marcus picked up on the tension and shifted in discomfort.

Louarn spoke again after the silence began to appear unending, in British this time. “Grandmother wishes to tell you,” he said with bewilderment, “that the ceremony will happen at the same place beyond the woods as last year, tomorrow after the moon is past its zenith.”

“Tell her thank you, and that I will be there,” Esca answered, releasing Louarn as he did.

Louarn regarded him oddly, but nodded in lieu of a goodbye and gently led Meghan away by the shoulder. He turned once before rounding the house, eyeing Esca with curiosity, and he knew they would have words about this soon enough.

That night, Marcus stole furtive looks at Esca as they sat side by side before the hearth, resting strained muscles before bedding down. Esca could almost hear him picking and weighing his words, building his phrase with a craftsman’s care, even as he drank in the hearth’s warmth and stroked absently at Catus’ head.

“What did Louarn have to tell you this morning?” He said finally, his tone carefully pitched to avoid accusation.

“He wanted to tell me the day and the hour for the celebration of Lughnasadh. It has been set for tomorrow after the middle of night, at the same place where it happened last year.” As Marcus soaked up the words, green eyes turned amber in the firelight, the words escaped Esca in a rush: “I would have you go with me, if you are willing.”

Marcus’ eyes went very wide and round. “I thought…is this not something sacred, for your people alone?”

 _You are my people now. You are less Roman than you were when first we met, and a better man for it_. Esca knew it was not the time to speak of such things, though in his heart he felt them. “You grow in their esteem daily. It would please me, to see you treated as a man of this community and not an outsider.”

“And they would have me?”

Esca would fight anyone who opposed, and gladly. “They will accept you as my guest.”

He thought of turning down the lights and fire of the roundhouse, save for their Roman oil lamp, slipping out of the warmth with Marcus’ solid presence at his side. Lughnasadh commemorated death and rebirth, a time of rejoicing in life; there were games and food, and the ritual reenactment of Lugh defeating blight to deliver the harvest to humankind. To have this man at his side throughout the night, to whisper about the significance of each moment into his ear in Latin, put a glow in his chest like the harvest’s bonfire.

Marcus did not seem adverse to the idea himself. “It would honor me, Esca. But…” he released a breath and linked his hands over one knee, “but I wonder if it might be too early.”

“You have lived here for more than a year now.”

“I have also not yet learned much of the language, and Louarn still uses British to stop me from prying.”

“He is cautious Marcus, nothing more. He would like to trust you, but it has fallen to him to protect Grandmother, and he takes his duties seriously.”

“He worries I’ll go to the legions about them,” Marcus said, lowering his chin a fraction.

“Nonsense,” Esca said in a breath, hauling himself sideway to press his side against Marcus’. “If there were any fear for you having the interests of the empire before the interests of your neighbors, nobody would trade with you in the summer, none would speak to you. Even Grandmother sees no harm in you.”

He would not say the elderly druidess trusted Marcus as much as she trusted Esca’s judgment as the son of Cunoval. But she had still come the past winter against Louarn’s insistent warnings, for a Roman’s sake, and her act of compassion had not been without its results. More and more people cared to associate with Marcus now, safe in both Grandmother’s grudging approval and his status as Esca’s shieldbrother.

Ah. Shieldbrothers. Esca was glad he was not prone to blushing. One of these days, he would have to reveal to Marcus that most of the people to the west of Glevum believed they had been fucking since the day they arrived. That small miscommunication was perhaps the only reason Esca was not completely dispirited at Marcus’ reticence to learn British.

“She must have believed I would not remember anything through my delirium,” Marcus continued blithely.

“Most likely,” Esca replied with levity, and Marcus shoved at him with his elbow. “Still, she did not let you die. Few druids would risk revealing their identity these days, less so for a Roman solider.”

“So it’s true? Grandmother is a druid?”

“You have long suspected, else I’d have never told you.”

“I suspected, yes,” Marcus said, contemplative, “though I confess I had believed the sight of her in our house while I was ill simply a product of the fever for many long months.”

 “It was not.”

“She wore a headdress of feathers, and she made a drink, something cold that tasted mouldy…”

“Which you promptly spit out like a child.”

Marcus chuckled, lowering his head blithely. His forehead touched Esca’s shoulder briefly, sending a warm wave of affection into Esca’s chest. “I had been thinking of the man from Isca Dumnoniorum who ate mouldy grain and went mad,” and then, a little lower, “but once you asked that I trust you, I drank.”

“That you did.” Esca dared to lay his own head on Marcus’ shoulder now. It was large and solid as a couch cushion, “will you join me for Lughnasadh, Marcus, my shieldbrother?”

He felt Marcus’ chest expand and contract in a silent sight. “Nothing would make me happier, but I would think it disrespectful to come like this. I will not insult this feast by turning up unwanted, though I am grateful for your invitation.”

Esca had known he would say something of the sort. He nodded against Marcus’ shoulder.

“However…” Marcus hesitated, then swallowed, “it has been in my heart for a time now to ask you a favor. I wish to learn British. I would have asked a year ago, but then you were to leave – “

Esca raised his head to stare at Marcus, speechless.

“Has it been too bold of me?”

“Not at all. I’m glad you asked, for I had worried you never would,” Esca felt the corners of his lips hurt somewhat from the breadth of his smile.

“If I’d known it would bring you joy, I would have asked sooner.” Marcus quickly turned solemn. “In a year’s time, perhaps, I will have accomplished enough to convince Louarn and Grandmother that I am worthy. It is my hope that the rest of them will fall in line afterwards.”

"A wise plan," Esca agreed, "And if you wish to speak like a Briton within a year, then I shall be hard on you. Perhaps I shall only speak in Latin to you in the mornings."

"Madness!"

A short fight ensued, each striving to push the other off balance. It was half-hearted, for it was late and exhaustion from the start of the harvest season lay heavily in their bones; they wound up in an awkward tangle of limbs, with Marcus beneath and Esca half on top of him. Everyone’s muscles hurt, Marcus groaned in pain when a mistaken tug hurt his leg and Catus returned to the opposite end of the roundhouse, clearly upset at being thus ignored: hardly a moment of passion.

Esca slid off Marcus' bulk with care and rose into a crouch, offering Marcus a hand to right himself, but the man spread on the floor below him stilled, eyes moving slowly over Esca's face. He turned slightly, releasing his hand from beneath his body, and raised it carefully to the side of Esca’s face. His fingers traced the line of Esca’s sideburns down to where his scant beard grew, then a finger brushed across the bottom of his chin. The questing hand ran back up to his cheek and followed the lines of his cheekbones down to the corner of his lips. Marcus' skin felt warm against Esca's lips, ragged from the biting wind.

Unable to tolerate the tension, Esca surged down and pressed a quick kiss to Marcus’ lips before sitting once more. When he regained his courage, raising his eyes to look at Marcus once again, Marcus was looking at Esca in mixed surprise and reverence, the way he had looked, once before, when Esca had stepped through a dense fog, shoulder to shoulder with those who had once been the legionaries of the Ninth Hispana.

_You are worthy already, Marcus. The rest will come in time._

 

* * *

 

 

On the next day, after all the work of the fields was done, their evening meal eaten, and Esca prepared, Marcus wandered about the house, seeing to small tasks of straightening and organizing as if he were reluctant to bed down. A small spark of hope came to life in Esca’s chest. “Have you reconsidered?”

“Attending the Lug…?”

“Lughnasadh.” Esca said, lingering on each sound for clarity.

Marcus gave the word another few tries, managing the accent but stretching Lugh’s name into a too long “oo” sound. “I have not. But I would like to see you off.”

“You could see me off at the edge of the forest, if you wished. You need not follow us,” Esca amended, seeing how Marcus meant to refuse again, “but I believe it would be a good start, that the rest of them see that you know of the festival and will keep the secret. It could help procure your invitation.”

Marcus looked ponderous. “I see the reason in what you say.” Then, in lieu of an answer, he rose to his feet and went to where his cloak lay neatly folded on the milking stool.

Esca collected his sword, his dagger and the oil lamp as Marcus prepared. He had been simmering with festive anticipation since dawn, but soon he discovered that having Marcus involved, if only a little, turned the night into something even sweeter.

“Do we turn out the fires?”

“No, you might need them when you get back. Let us bring Saevu and Catus as well; they will lead you back through the darkness if you cannot find your way.”

They walked up the small trail together, Esca holding the lamp aloft and ahead of them, the back of his unoccupied forearm brushing Marcus’ chest when he moved it back enough. All around them, further up the hills, further down and from the direction of the town to the west came people bearing lamps or torches, making their way in silence to where the trees grew thick.

“Is silence part of the ritual?” Marcus whispered, nearly in his ear.

Esca almost shuddered at the warm breath upon his skin, “In part. The silence is also for secrecy.”

They had reached the first trees by the time more points of light approached, and now Esca could just discern low murmurs and a snatch of quiet conversation here and there.

Faron, their younger, unmarried neighbor, was the first to catch up to them, stepping cautiously through the mists that slowly rolled in. His eyes were very wide, though whether from surprise or disapproval Esca could not tell. He looked from his face to Marcus’, still as a statue, until he finally spoke – in Latin.

“Good evening, Esca. Marcus,” he said, bewilderment in his tone, “Will you be joining us to…welcome the harvest season, then?”

Marcus smiled, “no Faron. I only come to wish you all well, and to see Esca on his way.”

The tension humming around them ended abruptly, as if cut through with a knife. Esca was not too glad to perceive it, thinking of what might have happened if Marcus had meant to join them, but he took some comfort in knowing that his stand had been made. “I would trust Marcus with my life, Faron. But he feels this is a thing of our people, and wishes to respect it.”

Faron nodded, more bewildered now than he had before. “I…well, thank you Marcus,” he said, too late, clearly more to fill the silence between the three of them.

“I will turn back now,” Marcus answered and in not an apologetic tone, to Esca’s relief. Then softer, stepping closer for Esca only, “take care; I will see you home by nightfall tomorrow.”

“Nightfall tomorrow,” Esca agreed. For the briefest of moments their eyes met, and a wordless message seem to travel from one to the other and back, before Marcus took a step away. He broke from the growing circle of light bearers – they had amassed a crowd with his presence, it seemed – and began to make his way back, walking against the current of people. Taller than anyone, short-haired and bearing no light, Marcus stood out in his otherness that night more than ever before, and a small tug of something, disappointment and something sweeter, bit at Esca’s heart. Then came the frantic pad of two wolfhounds bounding away in their other master’s direction, and that was when the ever-darkening mist and the bodies of the festival attendees swallowed the sight and the sound of them all.

Through the pleasant warmth of expectation that he had felt at the celebration, Esca felt true, undiluted disappointment tug hard at his heart with their absence.

After the sacrifice of the sacred bull but before the storytelling, as the rowdier of the young men organized themselves for the traditional games of the welcoming of the harvest, Louarn approached Esca alone, gesturing him away from the crowd.

“I hear it told that you brought your Roman shieldbrother to the festival,” he began gently, once they were safely away. It was quite clear that Louarn was not spoiling for a fight.

Esca was in too good a mood himself, the joy of a rich harvest season and the sense of brotherhood about him coursing through his veins like good liquor. “He is not here. But yes, I would have brought him, had he not believed himself unwelcome."

Louarn searched Esca’s face, for what, he could not tell. “I have no quarrel with your Marcus. He is a hard worker, and to hear you speak of it, a warrior of honor. But…”

“But what? But he is a Roman?” Esca questioned, loudly but not unkindly, “And I am Brigantes, and you and your kin Dobunni. We are all of us of different tribes and places.”

“That may be, yes. And the tribes were not all at peace, even before the Red Crests came. But it is not the Brigantes killing our druids, stamping out our gods and our traditions. It is not the Dobunni, Iceni or Catuvellani telling us to speak, dress and live as they do.”

“He has no part in that!” That was, at its core, a lie of course. He had heard the story of the uprising at Isca Dumnoniorum from Marcus himself, up to the moment when the chariot crashed: though he had felled the charioteer and only the charioteer, he had indeed battled (and almost certainly killed) the druid who rode with him. But it had been a death on the battlefield, a thing of equals at war, and not the purge that Louarn was in mind of.

“And I believe you Esca,” Louarn placated, “for I like Marcus. Truly I do. He is a man of loyalty. But there, you see, is the problem: if Rome called at your door, which promises would a man of loyalty honor? Those he made as a warrior of his people, or those he has made to you?”

“He will align himself with those with whom honor lies,” Esca answered without hesitation.

Louarn stared at him, face unreadable. “Very well. I do not wish to drip poison into your ear. I only hope that you are right about your Roman, for the sake of us all,” he concluded with a sigh, then turned briskly, leaving Esca alone with his wheat-and-berry meal, and his tempestuous thoughts.

Oh, it was no simple thing, to imagine what Marcus would say, or what he would do, if a legion indeed came to their door. He could not, would not ask Marcus to hate soldiers, crests or the sight of an eagle standard. But he could count on Marcus to choose his place according to what appeared fair and correct. Another man in his place would have wasted no time in sweetening the ear of the tax collector’s wife for his own benefit, would not treat Esca as an equal, would not care to procure the good opinion of his Brittonic neighbors.

But Marcus did care.

 _This is suddenly not unlike the village of the Seal People_ , Esca thought with irony.  _I am given guest rights and honors while Marcus is scorned, made to hang back from food and warmth_. But he had protected Marcus then, as best he could under the guise of enmity; surely he could do better now, with a friendship striving to grow into something more in his favor.

 

* * *

 

 

Esca returned home as night fell on the following day, loose-limbed and glad, but tired. The dogs gave tongue in welcome as he reached the doorway and ducked inside, holding the tightly bound parcel of bull's meat above his head so that they might not be tempted to steal it. "Down, you beasts!" he said with a laugh.

From across the house, Marcus rose to greet him with a smile. "I brought in water, and there is stew on the fire. I've already eaten, but I will of course sit with you."

Esca briefly remembered the last Lughnasadh, when he had come home to Marcus in a sullen, suspicious quietness. It had been foolish of him, he could admit now, to have expected mere acceptance of his disappearance from Marcus then, more so with how little had been said about what they were to each other. But Marcus was reaching to clasp his forearm in greeting now, moving to quiet Saevu and Catus to help defend his parcel.

"Was it good?"

"It was." Esca reached for the bucket of water, the cold bracing against his exhaustion-fevered skin.

Marcus looked at the ceiling contemplative, if thinking truly or avoiding the sight of Esca as he stripped, he did not know. "I know little of what happens at these ceremonies," he said at length, "is it like the summer fair?"

"Very different from it, in fact. There is no commerce, and while there are games, they are all made in honor of Lugh's triumph over the darkness. There is eating of sacred harvest foods, storytelling. It is an auspicious time for marriages, so where there are young people of a mind to marry, Lughnasadh is where the handfasting happens."

Marcus absorbed his words, and Esca seized the chance to throw on a clean tunic and take a few gulps of his stew. He saw the smile slip from Marcus' face, "And was there trouble, because I followed you part of the way?"

There had been Faron's confusion. There had been Louarn's warning. There had been a few loud comments from the older farmers, a few pointed looks; he was almost sure Isurium and the death of the Brigantes had been mentioned once, just far enough for Esca to second-guess his ears. Only their closer neighbors had spoken openly of Marcus' kindness, but it had been clear that his presence had been divisive.

"Esca?"

"They were not all of one mind. But nobody spoke against you." And that was not a lie, for to be called too loyal was no slander.

"I would not dampen this day for you."

"You didn't."

Marcus sighed. "And yet my place here is not as...welcome I had thought."

"You speak nonsense, my friend. The people are not wary of  _you_."

The sound of displaced grass from outside ended the moment abruptly, setting the dogs off to bark and rush outside. Louarn and Faron would know to call a greeting, young Brenhin made more noise than a herd of cattle, and Meghan was near soundless on her feet. Esca saw Marcus come to the same conclusion; he did not move to still Marcus’ hand when it reached for the gladius on his belt.

“It’s better that they not know there are two of us,” Marcus whispered. He waited for Esca to nod, padded toward the door and slipped out with quick, precise movements.

Alone in the roundhouse, Esca fetched his dagger and went to stand with his back against the wall just beside the leather apron, pricking his ears. At first there was nothing but nighttime sounds and low growling from Saevu, and then two pairs of clumsy footsteps seemed to come closer at last.

 “Marcus Aquila,” said a woman’s voice from the dark.

“You…!” Marcus paused, and he did not draw his sword.

There was a brief silence before the woman’s voice came again. “We do not ask for your aid. Had you not come to the door, we would not have sought you out. We ask but for your silence.”

“You flee.”

“Marcus Aquila,” she repeated, answering neither yes nor no, short of breath as she was; if it was from running of from fear, Esca did not know. “You had claimed to care for the fate of my son. He claims that you are kind.”

Esca had heard enough. He ducked under the leather apron nimbly, almost colliding with Marcus as he righted himself. He straightened, taking in the scene with confusion.

In the faint moonlight, Esca could pick out the shape of a woman in a cloak that had seen better days. Held to her side, wrapped in a somewhat less threadbare cloak up to his ears, was a short, wide-eyed boy. “Marcus, what-“

“Esca. This is Tullius and this is his mother...”

“Saba. I am Saba…” there was a breath as the woman seemed about to address them as  _domine_ , and stopped herself.

Esca stared. Saba stared back. As Esca slowly made sense the sight of the two runaway slaves, the woman seemed to be trying to make sense of Esca and failing. She frowned; beside him, Marcus stepped sideways, closer to Esca’s shoulder.

Saba’s eyes became even wider, and she gave a startled little gasp. Something in her posture became less unsure. “I refuse to endure the bond of slavery any longer, or to have my son torn from me. Yes, we flee.” Saba looked to one, then the other. ”Will you keep the secret?”

The laws of Rome indicated that fleeing slaves should be stopped and returned to their masters: Esca knew that well enough, having attempted escape before. He had even seen slaves with collars around their necks, in the household of a man that the master who had sold him to the ludus sometimes waited on. Heavy things they were, in riveted metal, bearing plaques that read  _hold me, for I flee_. To do what Saba asked was to commit a crime, but it was one that Esca would commit with relish.  
  
As for Marcus...Louarn’s words of the night before returned, driftwood rising from a deep, dark loch.  _I have made my decision, my path is chosen. What will be yours, Marcus?_ The world seemed to hold its breath as one, its focus on Marcus.

In lieu of an answer, Marcus ducked back into the roundhouse without a word. He came out again very quickly and Esca saw a bundle, its wrappings clearly cut from the white, formless tunic that Marcus had worn in the days of his illness. He'd brought it with him from the villa, but Esca had yet to see him wear it again.

 “Here are some bread and grain, a bit of dried meat,” Marcus began, reaching out to an instinctively flinching Saba and tucking the bundle into her arm. “If you go southeast...there is a man in Calleva who would help you, in a villa to the north of the earthen wall. It has a turret on it. Tell him, when you see him, that Marcus’ left leg fares well.” It was a code, one that only a person who’d seen Marcus with their own eyes would know to speak. The senior Aquila would understand it.

Saba’s eyes were wide as she tucked the bundle under her worn cloak. “Truly, you must be a philosopher, to go to such lengths for a pair of runaways.” But her eyes flicked briefly to Esca as she spoke.

“I am not, but I thank you for the compliment.”

“Keep to the forest as much as you can, and avoid the roads,” Esca said. “You do not need to enter Calleva to find this villa, so take care to avoid the gates and earthen wall.”

Saba looked at both of them dazedly for a long time after Esca fell silent. Her lips rose in what would have been a smile, were Saba not trying to hold in fierce tears as she did. “May the gods bless you both.” She took a step back, Tullius still quiet beside her. “And…my boy. Tullius…the domina.” Saba swallowed thickly. “His  _true_  name is Inam. I…I did not let her.” And with that, son in hand, Saba took another step back, then another, before finally turning her back on them. They heard her light step and the even softer padding of the boy’s moving towards the hills, towards Glevum and beyond – and perhaps safety.

Esca and Marcus stood by their doorway until the sound of the fleeing slaves had long since dissolved into the sounds of the night. “A master can, and often does, rename his slaves,” Marcus said. “A boy born into slavery particularly so.”

Esca knew that indeed, having clung to his name ferociously throughout the years of his slavery. “Inam means gift,” he responded. His eyes lingered on the dark for a moment longer. “Will your uncle truly help her?”

“Unlike myself, Uncle Aquila happens to be an avid reader of Seneca, though he’d say that hardly merits him the title of philosopher. In the name of what he believes, he will.”

Esca still did not look at him. “They will come in search of them.”

Marcus nodded, and they turned as one. Marcus’ green eyes were calm and resolute. “Let them come.”

Esca’s heart beat with a fierce, burning pride as Marcus turned back into the roundhouse with unhurried movements, as if he had not just shattered the laws of ownership to pieces.

 _Is this a thing of the gods_ , Esca asked in the silence of his mind. _Louarn asks what Marcus will be loyal to, and suddenly we are faced with runaway slaves that Marcus chooses to aid, with no pressure from me: is this a sign?_

 


	4. Wolves at the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **4/12/2018 edit: I erased the entire first section of this story, where Marcus meets Priscus Considius Servius, by accident, at some point. it is now restored.**

Marcus woke, as soldiers did, quickly and quietly. Esca was shaking him, his cold hands a sign that he had been outside, and Marcus knew what was happening before he spoke.

 “We have callers?”

Esca nodded, his face grim. “They are asking for you, and will say nothing to me, but it seems fairly obvious what they come for.”

“Then I suppose I should go meet them.”

After throwing on some clothes and heading out, Marcus found two people idling before the roundhouse, a tall man in a long tunic and braccae holding the rein of a horse, a younger man in a simple, unstriped toga and cloak. The younger man stepped forward at the sight of Marcus. “Marcus Flavius Aquila?”

“Yes?”

“Priscus Considius Servius,” said the man, bowing his head at Marcus obsequiously, “come to inquire about two runaway slaves, on my patron’s behalf.” He did not introduce the man at his side, taller and larger than him, who Marcus dimly recognized as one of the slaves set to the task of gardening.

So, the young man was a freedman to the tax collector. Marcus made sure to squint in confusion as he answered. “You’ve had escapees?”

The man nodded. “A British slave and her half-Carthaginian young, vanished between last night and this morning, without a trace.”

Marcus nodded, not trusting any verbal answer of his to convey the polite commiseration he was probably expected to feel. “We know nothing of fugitives, and our small piece of land has little enough in the way of hiding places,” Marcus responded evenly, “but you’re welcome to search our poor farm for signs.” He made a show of gesturing towards their roundhouse, just as Esca came out himself.

Esca looked up, taking in the scene for the briefest instant before lowering his head slowly, as if bowing. “The barn is this way, if it please you that I take them there,” he informed the ground, odd submissiveness in his tone. He didn’t refer to Marcus as _domine_ , but his tone was so meek and submissive, he might as well have.

Servius eyed him with some bewilderment. “Who is this man?”

“My freedman, Esca.”

Servius’ shoulders relaxed, his face easing into understanding. “We will be glad for your help, Aquila.”  He gestured in the direction Esca had indicated and strode forward. Esca quickly ran after him, taking the lead, while the wolfhounds’ barks resounded from the field beyond as they caught the scent of strangers.

Marcus followed them with his eyes. Uncomfortable though it made him, Esca’s deference was a clever precaution. A proper patron-client relationship in the eyes of this tiny, probing offshoot of Rome that threatened to invade their lives would keep them safe, for who would expect a strict patron, one who’d clearly worn his former slave down into permanent obsequiousness, of being complicit with runaway slaves?

It didn’t take long for Servius and the slave he’d brought along to decide there was nothing of consequence there, no slaves nor any place for them to hide. The sun had only just begun to peek through the clouds when the two men took their leave of Marcus.

“I thank you for your help.”

Marcus nodded wordlessly, and Esca ducked his head in a bow.

Servius looked around, as if unwilling to take proper leave, and Marcus wondered if what flit briefly through his eyes was fear. But it was gone before Marcus could read it, and Servius took a step closer to Marcus. “I would also ask of you, if you might be so kind,” he began in a whisper, “if you might have any inkling, the faintest idea, as to who I might ask, or where I should look. My patron is quite upset, as is his wife.”

 Marcus felt a stab of pity for the young man. He could glean nothing about his relationship with his patron from these short exchanges, but it was perhaps harsh of Marcus to have cast him as the enemy so quickly. Even if Balbus were generous to his clients (which Marcus frankly suspected he was not), Servius would depend on him for the rest of his life regardless of his feelings for the tax collector. Hunting for his superior’s lost property was one of a host of tasks he was expected to carry out, his livelihood dependent on how happy his master (for wasn’t that what a patron was, in the end? A master, of sorts?) was with him.

Still, he did not feel an ounce of regret when he answered. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Even our closest neighbors, as you can see, are sheltered from our sight by the hills. A band of ten men could probably slip right by us if they were quiet enough. They could have gone anywhere from here.”

“But they would have tried to go south, southeast.”

“Or north, towards the wall. Or further east, wherever that might take them. Perhaps it is the soldier in me, but if I were to run, I would take the path that those sent after me would expect the least.”

Servius’ face turned ashen. “Of course, of course. I am sure you would help us further if you could.” He folded his arms beneath his heavy winter cloak. Then he turned, hauling himself onto the saddle of the only horse they’d brought, easing the creature into a walk that seemed to go distinctly westward, the slave following dutifully on foot. Marcus felt his chest ease with relief, but not completely.

Esca cantered to him, shedding the pretense like a muddy cloak. “Have we been successful?”

“I hope. We mustn’t watch them go,” Marcus said under his breath, turning away as he did. “We may ask Louarn and the others where they’ve gone later.”

“You overestimate that softskin, Marcus. He’s but a boy, and looks like he couldn’t track a branch flowing downriver,” Esca threw a glance over his shoulder nevertheless. “But the other man, the slave, is of these lands. He had the air of a hunter about him.”

“Would he aid a cruel master?”

“He might,” answered Esca grimly. “He might expect rewards, or fear a harsh punishment.”

“Or he might be of those slaves who has forgotten he was a man, once, and now knows only service, like a knife or a sickle.”

“That he might. His eyes looked quite dead.” But Esca’s shoulders had unwound, the threat gone as far as he was concerned. “Our neighbors will not help them. They will be sent in circles until the trail has gone colder yet.”

“You may be right,” Marcus conceded, then smiled. “I should not assume every pair of men is as adept at finding what is lost as us two.”

Esca smiled back, surprised at his humor. “We should get on with the last of the harvest and the day’s work. We’ve lost enough time misdirecting the tax collector’s people.”

The matter was settled, for Esca at least, and Marcus understood his logic. But he had an unsettling feeling that made him uncomfortable in his own skin, not unlike the feeling that woke him on that fateful night in Isca Dumnoniorum, of a far off danger marching closer.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a nearly fourteen days later, four days after he’d returned from taking his tenth of grain to the villa, that Marcus’ suspicions  became terribly corporeal.

It happened as he crossed from the granary to the roundhouse, near midday; the grain pits, which would be all full this year, were to be fastidiously repaired for cracks before even a single blade of grass was laid inside them. Marcus raised a hand, wiping rapidly cooling sweat from his forehead and nose, and saw a splotch of color at the very edge of his eyesight. He turned at once, blinking and brushing at his eyes with his thumbs, for what he saw could not be what was, but the vision did not go away. He should not have doubted it for a second: Marcus could pick out the red of legionary cloaks and the dull glow of crested helmets from any other shade of scarlet ever since he was a child.  _I would know a legion’s men, even if I saw them from across the Lethe_.

Moving slowly, for if he could see them, perhaps they could see him, Marcus turned to the house. “Esca?” The man’s head poked out of the granary door. “Esca. Legionaries.”

Esca’s eyes went wide. “You are sure?”

“Yes, they come this way.”

“What could they want with us?”

“I don’t know.”  _Perhaps they caught Inam and Saba, and now they come for us, for harboring fugitives._

Esca slid out of the granary slowly, like a man stepping out of his hiding place and about to bolt towards another. “Will you go meet them?”

“I will.” Marcus passed a hand over his chin, where a very sparse but quite visible beard now grew, an uneven square around his lips. He wore a long-sleeved tunic and braccae, and his hair had begun to creep down his neck. Marcus felt he was quite a long way from looking anything like Guern had, but to shorn and shaved men of the Legions he would no doubt appear just another wild barbarian. “And you? Will you play the dutiful freedman before them?”

“I will have to,” Esca replied gravely, rejecting Marcus’ attempt at humor. “It is one thing to be a gentle master, Marcus. But to be close to us, sympathetic…it’s a whole other thing. A dangerous thing. For you.”

They exchanged grim nods before Esca moved towards the roundhouse as fast as he dared. Marcus kept an eye out for the legionaries in the meantime, deciding what he would do once he climbed down the hills and into the path of the red-cloaked riders. He had barely put a foot in front of the other when he heard rapid footsteps coming through the grass: in a moment, Esca had appeared at his side again, pressing something cold, curved and metallic into his hand. His military armilla.

Esca’s entire arm brushed against his as he turned away, neither of them shying away from the touch. As he slipped the arm-ring through his wrist, pulling his sleeves far up and carefully ensuring that the bracelet’s PIA FIDELIS face outward, Marcus felt as though he’d walked through a patch of sunlight, warming him from shoulder to fingertips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The climb down was fast, with much slipping and sliding amidst grasses made sleek from the oncoming winter. The red-cloaked, red crested men were three, each mounted on their own horse, the helmet of one sporting the transversal crest of a centurion. They seemed to ease their mounts into faster trots as they caught sight of Marcus, who planted his feet firmly into the ground and waited.

When the first rider, the centurion, was finally close enough for Marcus to see the color of his eyes (storm grey), he threw back his shoulders and bounced his fist off his chest in the most formal salute he could. “Hail!”

The rider’s grey eyes went wide, and he grappled at the reins of his horse. He turned, yelling at the two behind him. “Roman!”

The two behind him halted, clambering down from their mounts after a moment of bewilderment. They converged upon Marcus, and the grey-eyed man saluted him, the other two following suit. None of them were as tall as he was, Marcus thought with irrational satisfaction, as if his size would protect him. “Hail. Your name, citizen,” said the grey-eyed man, not impolitely.

Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “Who might I have the honor of addressing?” He used his command tone, despite his careful words, and saw the moment when the grey-eyed man finally saw his bracelet. His eyes widened in shock and his throat worked as he swallowed.

“Publius Mancius Victorinus, hastatus posterior of the Legio II Augusta. Behind me, tribune Quintus Sextus Lupinus and one of my decani, Manius Valerius Brutus.” The Legate was a tall, thin man with dark, sleepy eyes, and the decanus a young man, one who seemed intent to not appear as young as he was.

“You explain yourself to a settler, Centurion Victorinus?” The tribune used a quiet, dangerously unassuming tone, no doubt polished and perfectly pitched for his purposes. Color rose in Victorinus’ face, but he moved not a muscle. “Sir, this man bears a military armilla.”

“I am Marcus Flavius Aquila.” He spoke slowly, enunciating his name as carefully as the Seal Chieftain once had.

The words had a near magical effect: Victorinus’ face lost its angry red flush, Brutus gasped. Even the Legate’s face slackened in something like surprise.

“Once pilus prior of the Fourth Cohort of Gauls? The man who held the fort of Isca Dumnoniorum? The one who found the Eagle of the Ninth?” Though he tried valiantly, Victorinus couldn’t keep a certain awe out of his voice.

Marcus simply nodded, though he felt just as surprised as the centurion looked to be. After growing fond of life deep in tribal country, where his name was remarkable only for its Romanness, he had thought word of his feats had stayed behind at Calleva, never to follow him home. But it was by then nearly three years since the failed Dumnoni uprising, and one and a half since the Eagle, more than enough time for the Legate, his tribunes, anyone who had been in the fort at Eburacum when he and Esca walked in, to talk and perhaps even to send word.  _If anything,_ Marcus thought,  _I should be surprised it took this long for them to catch up with me_.

Victorinus exhaled through his nose. “It is an honor, sir.” He looked at Marcus intently, as if wanting to commit his face to memory, “and lucky to have met you, for there are things afoot that the II Augusta would be honored to request your aid for.”

“What would this reason be?”

 “A pair of slaves escaped the house of Priscus Considius Balbus, tax collector of this region, fifteen days ago. Men of his household were sent to find them, or signs of them, but not a trace was discovered.”

“Oh. Yes,” and Marcus wondered if he should say ‘my farm’ or ‘our farm’ before finally saying, “the farm did receive a visit from a Priscus Considius Servius. He and a slave inspected every building, to no avail.” Marcus glanced at each of the three men, “if I might be so bold as to ask, why would the Legions send men all the way here from Isca Augusta over two escaped slaves? While the matter is unfortunate, it is not rare. And it is not as if two people can initiate a revolt.”  _Particularly not a malnourished woman and a boy not yet grown into manhood, but I am not supposed to know that, of course._

The sleepy-eyed Legate took the word at that. “While searching the hills for traces of them, Priscus Considius Servius went into the woods with a British slave.” He was young as well, the tribune, of an age with Marcus perhaps. “They came upon the remains of a very great pyre, trodden earth. Some digging yielded bones, which the men feared human, but turned out to be animal.”

Though he was sure his face didn’t move an iota, a line of stone cold terror rose from Marcus’ stomach and up his throat to his mouth. “Rituals?”

“Yes. This would mean, Centurion Aquila,” said the tribune with a deference that rang hollow to Marcus, “that there have been rites performed in these hills. Rituals, in land where so many Britons live together, means druids. As there have been rumors of druids here for at least two years, Priscus Considius Balbus considered it wise to call for aid.”

“Could it not have been a harmless local festivity? In Etruria, my homeland, we offer tribute to the goddess Feronia on the Ides of November.”

“Then why keep it secret?”

“Perhaps it’s the will of their gods. The cult of Mithras holds its secrets as well.”

Tribune Lupinus smiled with such good humor that it chilled Marcus to the bone. “You are clever, Centurion, though perhaps you’ve been living too long in these hills.” When Marcus didn’t respond to the clear provocation, the smile became wider. “I understand that your last posting ended rather abruptly? And that a druid was involved?”

Marcus laughed mirthlessly. “The druid at Isca Dumnoniorum did a lot more than preside over rites, tribune. He fed the fires of dissent. He had the townspeople attack the supply train, taking the grain, and captured the patrol I sent after it. He personally beheaded one of the decani, in full view of myself and the men posted on the walls.”

The young decanus coughed, and Victorinus seemed to tighten his jaw until his lips turned into a thin line. Only the tribune remained impassive. “A tragic incident. One that we would not have happen again, not when we can prevent it.”

“Revolts cannot always be prevented by force, tribune. Many have a root, a source, and to attempt to crush the people beneath our sandals rather than address that source is to guarantee that the people, angered by inaction, will rise with even greater wrath later.”

“These are quite…unusual beliefs for a man who was a soldier, and a dedicated servant of Rome.”

“If I may, sirs,” interjected Victorinus, addressing Marcus when he did, “we are here to investigate, no more. At worst, we will find ourselves with an uprising on our hands, and we will return to the legate and request a vexillatio be created and dispatched here. At best, we will discover that old customs are perhaps a little too well preserved here in your vicus, and will be on our way.”

“If you wish to help, we would be most honored, you being who you are…” added the decanus earnestly, finding his voice at last.

Marcus softened. “I was not aware of this festival when it happened. I am but a Roman like any other to these peoples, and while my neighbors have been nothing but kind, I’m certain they would not take me to secret places of devotion to their gods, any more than I would take an uninitiated stranger into the cave of Mithras in Calleva.”

“But surely you know who could tell us of these rites?” Victorinus pressed, “we would not commit any offense against the local deities. All we need is sufficient proof that there is no cause for worry. A talk with a local leader, perhaps.”

Marcus nodded, his mind racing: they were at an impasse. He couldn’t lead the wolves to any door, but to refuse the plea for help would be as good as admitting that there was something to hide, and that he was complicit to it. To say he knew nothing would mean these men would keep searching, and the closest homestead, the one they might next pay a visit to, was the very last one he wanted them to visit.

In another instant, Marcus had made a decision. “I confess I am not well versed in the politics of this place, but I believe one of our neighbors, Louarn, holds a position of some influence amongst them.”

“Where might we find this Louarn?”

“I’m afraid he and his family are most often in the fields to the east with their herd of sheep,” Marcus lied congenially. “With winter closing in, it is one of the last times they can seize to have them graze. They will not be home for a while.”

 “Is there no other?”

“Our only other neighbor is a man named Faron, young and unwed.”

Victorinus huffed, for of course a young man could not be a druid. The tribune made the slightest hint of a displeased sneer. And Marcus seized his chance. “If it would please the tribune, you may all wait at my farm and I will summon Louarn. We are friends, and he would perhaps humor me by leaving his children to tend to the sheep and come here.”

He waited, with bated breath, as each of the three men considered his words. If they refused, they would perhaps still heed his words and pester Faron first; with the legionaries distracted so, he or Esca could run to Louarn’s and warn him.  _Mithras help us if Faron has another druid hidden somewhere in his home_.

At last, the legate inclined his head. “We would be pleased to avail ourselves of your hospitality.”

Marcus nodded, striving not to look too pleased. “If you would follow me that way.”

“Yes, we saw it as we approached,” the tribune confessed, sounding none too pleased. “The roundhouse?”

“Yes. I fear it is no villa,” Marcus said, trying to sound wistful, “but it came with the land, and it has proven sturdy enough.”

“Then do lead the way, Centurion.”

Marcus flushed with shame at the way the tribune said ‘centurion’, as if mocking him, and at realizing they would have to walk slowly with him up the hill – he could do it now, with his leg so much better, but he would be graceless at it, and it galled him to appear a weak cripple before these men. But he would not be shamed in his own lands, and so Marcus threw back his shoulders and marched forward, quiet and determined. He didn’t say a word as the land became steeper, didn’t turn to see if his companions stared at his stiff clamber. He would have kept his pace all the way uphill, with proper stoicism, if only he hadn’t taken too long a step with his left, his foot landing at just the wrong angle. The awkward position sent a bolt of pain up into his knee, its muscles already contracted from cold, and he reached out to clasp it hard.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Victorinus came up beside him, honest concern in his voice.

“Nothing. An old war wound, nothing more.” And then, unable to resist himself, “did the stories you’ve heard of me not mention my leg?”

“In a way,” answered Victorinus, a little ashamed, “to be plain with you, the stories suggested it was a great deal worse.”

“Did they say I had lost it?”

“No sir. They suggested you were torn to pieces, like Actaeon the hunter by his hounds, and had to be pieced back together somehow before you braved Caledonia.”

Marcus snorted briefly in laughter, deciding he liked Victorinus. He had to admit it wasn’t unpleasant to be treated with deference, as if he were still pilus prior. “Nothing of the sort happened, as you can see, but this leg will never be whole enough to march again.”

“I would give you a horse then, sir. You may ride ahead and alert your farmhands that we’re coming.”

“I may?” And an idea occurred to Marcus at the offer, “could I ride ahead a ways east after I’ve alerted my household to your presence, to converse with Louarn?”

“If I would please you.”

“It would please me.”

“I would give you my own horse, then.” And he looked like he would have, if decanus Brutus had not felt his rank and all but leaped in their direction with his reins in hand.

“I thank you, decanus.” It had been years since he’d ridden a cavalry mare. As he settled on her back, Marcus hesitated for a moment, learning the balance and height again, before ten years and more in the army took hold of his body. He found his balance, his legs comfortable, and it was as if he’d last got off the saddle of his mount at Isca the day before.

He looked down at Centurion Victorinus, at Decanus Brutus, whose eyes shone with wonder out of a forcibly passive face, and at the tribune, who revealed nothing. He gave in to the urge to smile, indulging for the briefest moment in the thought that they all might avert looming tragedy unscathed, then called “I will see you in a moment” before tightening his knees over the mare’s flanks.

 

* * *

 

 Marcus rode up the hill and across the moor, nearly to the hides of his door in his haste. “Esca!” His voice brought Catus and Saevus spilling out of the roundhouse with excited barks, both stopping short at how their Other Master was so far up suddenly, away from eager paws. Esca tumbled out of the roundhouse next, balking momentarily at the sight as well.

“The wolves?”

“They are coming,” he said, quietly surprised that Esca had thought of them as he had, in the quiet of his own mind. “The site of Lughnasadh was found during the search for the runaways. They suspect a druid, and sent for the legions.”

Esca cursed. “How lost they must have gotten in the woods, to have found the bonfire. Luck of the worst kind, for them.”

“I’ve asked them to rest in our home while I fetch Louarn from the eastern fields.”

Esca’s gaze turned alert, lively. “Where you well know he is not.”

“I do. But I will have to go around a way so they will not suspect.” Marcus took a deep breath before his next words. “I would not leave you alone with them if I could help it, but there is a man with them, a tribune, with very large eyes. He’d notice if you slip away.” A beat. “They will not be kind to you.” The tribune had spoken like a man with articulate, reasoned hatred of Britons. Victorinus, likeable though he seemed, seemed the kind to accept the rhetoric of Rome without chewing it. He would be coldly polite, or perhaps just distant. And the decanus seemed young enough to never have seen a freeborn Briton he did not have to stab on sight. “I will have to ask you to let them step on your honor, Esca. Not for me. For our friends. I may be gone some time, but I will hurry home.” Marcus swallowed thickly. “Can I ask that of you?”

Esca smiled. “You forget who I am.” A chieftain’s son, the man who had mustered a reluctant century for a man he wasn’t beholden to. “My honor hardly depends on them, Marcus. Go.” Esca’s smile didn’t falter, though something strangely like pride filled his eyes.

“Take care.”

 

* * *

 

 

Marcus rode east until the sight and sound of him was well concealed by distance. Then he cut across, through the hills where he and Esca had met Brenhin, riding as hard as he dared. There would be tracks here and there for anyone willing to look for them; he would have to hope the first winter snows came quickly and took all the year's happenings with them. If this had all happened last year, the rains would have carried off the harvest feast's remains long since and none of this would be happening, but Nature was a contrary thing, Marcus knew, and rode on without pausing.

At length he turned back west, and came up to the farmstead in the direction opposite his and Esca’s. He knew, from the sun and the light, that it had not been too long, but as he approached the farm a stab of fear made him impatient. “Louarn? Megan?” He called, slowing the horse to a walk.

There was a moment's silence, and Marcus feared Louarn really was someplace else, when he heard shuffling from some place out of sight. “Marcus,” Louarn answered, emerging from around his house and not from inside, amicable confusion on his face. He reached out to help stop the horse by the rains so Marcus could dismount, frowning at the Roman tack once he came up close.

Marcus dispensed with ceremony. “I come to warn you. There have been legionaries to my home, asking about druids.”

Louarn’s face became carefully blank. “And what would that mean to me, Marcus Aquila?” His tone was devoid of emotion.

“It means you must take care to hide Grandmother and any hint of the gifts she is left.” A liver or a heart for divination, grain in payment for a blessing or a fortune-telling. “It means there are wolves at your door. It means you are in danger, as is your family. I told them nothing. I will still tell them nothing if they return. But it will all be for nothing if they find her.”

Louarn’s face didn’t move, but his eyes dulled from something alarmingly like rage. For a moment, it wasn’t the older farmer with his thick beard standing before him – it was Cradoc, the man of the Dumnoni that Marcus had believed his friend. It was Esca as he was the day Uncle Aquila pried him from the ludus at Calleva.  _I hate everything you stand for, everything you are_. “And what would one more dead Briton be to you?" Louarn said finally. "Esca protects you, guarding your past as jealously as the oldest of secrets, but we have long known you were a fighter. A soldier, perhaps high in your ranks from how you carry yourself. Or perhaps you are just proud,” he shrugged. “But you were a legionary, whatever your place amongst them was. You must know what our place in the world is, according to yourself. What is it to you if your empire claimed another barbarian life?”

It was Louarn as he’d never seen him. He presented himself as a friendly, unassuming father, a kindly farmer from a tribe that had never been a force to be reckoned with – but he had been chosen to be Grandmother’s keeper. The eyes that looked into his weren’t as they often were, oblivious and good-natured. They were firm. Perhaps he had not been wrong in calling him a leader.

A second later, Marcus realized the intent of the words: this was a test. He had revealed to Louarn that he knew their secret, and now he was to be judged either worthy or unworthy of being one of its keepers. Would the man attack him? Marcus suspected he would fare better, lamed leg and all, than the smaller Louarn. He would not seek to kill a man whose daughter blushed sweetly at him, even after a year. But Louarn's enmity meant the enmity of the entire vicus, whether justly or unjustly earned.

Marcus chose his next words with care. “It is to me the death of a woman who saved my life, and all the lives who depend on her. It is to me the life of every man, woman and child who rely on the knowledge she carries.” Marcus broke the stare, looking at a point in the distance. “I come from Etruria. I’ve been in Judaea. There are more things in the world than the lines between Roman and Briton, and this is one of them.”  _I suspected it then, and I know it now._

Louarn looked at Marcus as if he had never seen him before. After a long moment, he raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing it absently. “You are a strange Roman, Marcus Flavius Aquila. When Esca came to us last winter, begging for Grandmother’s aid for your illness, we were all opposed to it, save for my daughter. It was only at Esca’s insistence that you were too delirious to understand who and what she was that she resolved to go. And now you come to warn me of soldiers.”

Marcus swallowed. “As you have suspected, I have served Rome in my time. But there are more oaths and promises and yes, honor than Rome knows. And I respect them.”

Louarn nodded slowly, and Marcus turned towards the horse, heaving himself gracelessly over her back.

“What would you have me do?”

“The legionaries will come to you, I know not when. They will visit all the houses, asking about Lughnasadh and the rites. I have them with me for now, but they  _will_  come, and they  _will_  search. If there is a safer place, in the woods or in another farm, I would take her there. And warn our neighbors.”

Marcus turned towards Louarn then, in time to see him nod. “Go then.” He did not look away, as if he were mulling words over. Then he opened his mouth and reached out with a hand. “I thank you, brother.”

Marcus leaned down as far as he could in the saddle, shocked joy at the gesture. It was not the first arm-clasp he'd had, not even the first one he'd gotten from Louarn, but it was different: Louarn grasped him hard, done with the pretense of forgetful tolerance, and for once Marcus was not afraid to return it with equal strength.  
  
"Stay safe," he said, before turning his horse homeward.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Legio II Augusta, to those not nitpicky enough to check, was a real legion. It was posted at Glevum for a while before being moved to Isca Augusta, also called Isca Silurium.
> 
> The pilus prior is a senior centurion in a cohort – there were six centurions to a cohort, each in command of a century, each with their own rank within the cohort. The hastatus posterior is the lowest ranking of the centurions. 
> 
> The numbers related to the following units are unclear to me. They appear as the sources I managed to find told me so. If someone here is a historian or has hard facts, kindly tell us in the comments.
> 
> The decanus is the leader of the ten man groups, called contuberniums, which are the smallest unit into which Roman soldiers could be grouped. As there were 80 men to a century, there were 8 decani to each century.
> 
> A vexillatio is a special force, created for a specific task by the Legate. It may consist of one or more centuries.
> 
> 'Vicus' has several meanings. Here, it is the word for the provincial civilian settlement that appeared close to official Roman 'sites'.
> 
> The freeman Priscus Considius Servius’ name is the first part of his former master’s name because freed men were given their master’s praenomen and nomen (their first and second name), with their own name added at the end. This would mean Esca would legally be Marcus Flavius Esca now, but surely he’d see that as an unwanted sign ownership, so of course Marcus is the real MVP and calls him just Esca.
> 
> Marcus refers to the legate and his men by their cognomina (their third name) because that is what passed for one’s name to strangers during this time. Only family and very close friends called each other by their praenomen. The fact that Marcus lets Esca calls him ‘Marcus’ in this fic, in the parent fic and in the movie, is quite telling.
> 
> A precise, helpful guide for Roman naming customs can be found [ here](https://sineala.livejournal.com/1598114.html). The names of the three original characters were carefully pieced together using both that source and these lists on Wikipedia: [list of nomina](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Roman_nomina), [list of cognomina](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Roman_cognomina).


End file.
